Empty Bottles
by timelord-curious
Summary: My first try at fanfiction. Sherlock gets bored, general sexiness ensues


"Sherlock, I'm thinking we could order some Chinese food tonight?" John called up the stairs as he hung up his coat. He had been at the station with Greg, finalizing their report on one of the latest cases. Greg had really wanted Sherlock there, since it was he who had discovered most of the important information, but he had refused to come, saying that the solution was so obvious they should be able to write up the report by themselves. "Sherlock?" John called again. He still hadn't gotten a response.

It wasn't exactly unusual for Sherlock to not respond, but normally when he wasn't on a case he was so jumpy he would have already been speaking to the people at the Chinese place in fluid Mandarin, just to take his mind off the boredom. Of course, speaking in foreign tongues wasn't enough to satiate his need for adventure, but any distraction was something for Sherlock. Maybe that was why John started to worry. Or maybe it was because recently, Sherlock had been acting very distant. He hadn't touched John in ages. Not even brushing fingers when they handed something to each other. John would have brought it up by now, he believed in being open with people, but he was slightly embarrassed that he noticed the lack of contact.

He tried to ignore the shivers that ran through his body every time he and Sherlock brushed. He tried to ignore the chills he got when he made eye contact with the brilliant grey blue eyes of his brilliant flat-mate. But he couldn't. He knew it wasn't rational, but every time Sherlock looked at him, John felt all warm and fuzzy inside. Just the fact that someone like Sherlock was looking at him made him feel that way.

And as he walked up the stairs, and looked through the door at the top of them into their flat, he felt happy to know that he was walking into a room full of Sherlock's things. He snuffed that feeling out, knowing that if Sherlock saw him with a stupid grin on his face he would deduce the life out of him.

So, John paused in front of their door, taking a breath to calm his nerves, all a buzz with anticipation of seeing Sherlock. He chuckled to himself, _Never imagined you would feel this way about a man, did you Johnny? _He set his mouth in its usual off-centered line, and pushed the door open.

The first thing he saw was a slippered foot hanging off the edge of the couch, the other propped up against the wall on the back of the couch.

"Sherlock?" John said for a third time, his voice now straining to not shout. He quickly moved next to the couch so that he could see his flat-mate better.

Sherlock was laying there in his robe, with an awkward grin slapped on his face, his eyes barely open.

"John," he breathed. "I've been… Waiting." His voice was slurred, and his eyelids fluttered as he spoke. "What took you so long".

"Jesus, Sherlock. What did you take? I thought we got rid of all the drugs" John stammered out as he took Sherlock's pulse, his hand shaking a bit. He knew that all he should be worried about was Sherlock's health and safety, but his faltered a bit before pressing his fingers to Sherlock's neck. His skin was warm under John's fingertips, and he knew he lingered there a bit too long, savoring the heat. He doubted Sherlock noticed though, not in his condition.

"I was just waiting for you, John. I got bored. I ran out of patches." Sherlock mumbled, his eyes completely closed now.

"No. No, Sherlock, I need you to keep your eyes open. And I need you to tell me what you took and how much of it."

"Oh come on John. Think. It's obvious." Even as out of it as he was, Sherlock still loved testing John. John shook his head a little, annoyed, but decided the fastest way to get it out of him would be to just guess.

John looked Sherlock up and down, trying to gain any clues that could be on his body. There was one patch on his left arm, obviously the last one, as the box that they came in was strewn on the floor next to him, empty. John's eyes moved from the box to a bottle that lay a few inches away from it. He picked it up and turned it around to see what the label was. Vodka. It was just as empty as the box. A few inches away from that was another bottle. Whiskey. Also empty.

There were three beer bottles in pyramid formation on top of the mantle, and one other vodka bottle in John's armchair. Everything was empty.

"Jeeeesus, Sherlock." John repeated. "You never drink. What happened? Is everything okay? Did something happen to Mycroft?"

"Mycroft? No, John, nothing happened. I was just bored" The word bored came out as a whine. "I was all out of patches, and you took all my drugs!" He pouted.

John pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. "You could have called me, Sherlock. You can always call me." He opened his eyes and was surprised to see that Sherlock was sitting up. He swiveled and let his legs drop to the floor so that he was facing John with his feet firmly on the ground.

John was still kneeling in front of the couch from when he had taken Sherlock's pulse. He felt like he should move back, since Sherlock's position change had moved them closer together, but he had gotten caught in his flat-mate's eyes, once again, and couldn't move.

Sherlock's eyes had lost the hazy look they had a second ago, and now were focused intently on John's face. The doctor felt his breath hitch in his throat, but all the same he tried to say, "We should get you into bed. The best thing for you now would be some sleep and water", but his voice cracked on the word bed.

The eyes watching him changed from observing to cataloguing, and John wondered exactly what Sherlock was seeing. Could he see how John could still feel a tingle in his fingertips where they had touched? Could he see how the thought of putting Sherlock to bed, such an innocent thing, was getting warped in John's brain? How it became the opposite of innocent? John tried to look away to break the eye contact, but just before he turned his head down Sherlock leaned forward an inch.

Just an inch. There was still space between them, but it had changed from casual proximity to intimate proximity.

John stopped breathing. He could feel his cheeks get warm, and knew how red they must be. He watched as Sherlock scanned his face, pausing at his lips. _No, I must be imagining that. _

Then, slowly, but without the slur, Sherlock breathed, "Yes, I think it would be wise to go to bed now."

He stood up, and John jumped up as well, finally freed from his stare. Sherlock stood for a few seconds, and then started to topple to his left. John reached out to grab him, but his position wasn't the best possible one for halting Sherlock's trajectory, and they ended up falling together. Sherlock landed on his back, underneath John.

_Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck. This is not good. This is far too close to be safe. _Those thoughts cycled through John's head as he felt Sherlock's thin body beneath him. He was so warm against John's skin. Slowly, carefully, John leaned back a bit so that he could see Sherlock's face. His eyes widened when he realized that Sherlock's cheeks were flushed and his eyes were glazed over. John's first thought was that he had somehow hurt him. But then, as he took note of where all of his extremities had fallen, he realized that his right leg had landed directly in between Sherlock's legs, and that his upper thigh was pressing against Sherlock's crotch.

_FUCK. _John felt his heart start beating faster, and felt his blood rushing to parts of him that he really didn't want it to go. He realized that Sherlock would be able to feel a bulge grow, the way they were tangled, but wasn't sure how to disengage smoothly.

He looked back at Sherlock and saw his eyebrow had arched, silently questioning him.

"Oh. Sorry. Yes, uh, I'll just… Yep." John huffed as he realized he was still laying on top of his flat-mate. He began to push himself up into a kneeling position.

As he leaned back, his legs pushed down against Sherlock. John saw Sherlock's eyes widen and his lips part, and heard a small gasp escape from between his mouth as John's right thigh pushed up farther in between his legs.

The sound of the gasp had made something clench in John's stomach, and he felt himself grow harder. He was now looming over Sherlock, who was still laying on the ground with his legs around John's one leg. John realized that the bulge in his pants must be absurdly obvious from this angle, and quickly stood up, straightening his jumper.

"Here" he extended a hand to help Sherlock up, and as Sherlock grasped it, John noticed that Sherlock's pants were distorted near his crotch. _The fall must have twisted them,_ he thought,_ nothing wrong with that._ He quickly looked away.

Sherlock led the way to his room, swaying once or twice, but staying upright. He fell onto his bed. "Alright, you just stay there, okay?" John said soothingly. "I'm going to go grab you a cup of water from the kitchen. I'll be back before you notice I'm gone."

He laughed, realizing how many times Sherlock really hadn't noticed he had left. Just yesterday, John had gone out for groceries, and when he had walked back in, Sherlock was rambling on about the properties of ash. John had looked around to see who Sherlock was talking to, and when he saw no one, he asked Sherlock. "Well, you of course," he had answered.

John walked back into Sherlock's bedroom, and almost dropped his full glass of cold water when he looked at the bed. Sherlock was still laying on the bed, but now his shirt was unbuttoned and his pants were unbuttoned and unzipped, revealing his underwear, which had tented up.

"John. Help me change. These clothes smell like alcohol." Sherlock mumbled.


End file.
